


It's Lavellan Now

by vecchiofastidioso



Series: The Long Way Around [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vecchiofastidioso/pseuds/vecchiofastidioso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of Éimhir Surana and Cullen doesn't end at their parting in the wake of the Ferelden Circle disaster. While it leaves them both scarred, shaken, some relationships are meant to continue, though they may take years to come to fruition. What came before was fragile. But they are older now and the barriers of Templar and mage don't matter. They have a second chance, a chance to start anew as Surana is reborn as Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It's Lavellan Now](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/86777) by vecchiofastidoso (as Anonymous). 



> This installment of Éimhir and Cullen's story was started from a prompt on Dragon Age Kink of "Since they stopped the Fifth Blight while only being nine (ten if you count the dog,) each member of the Warden's group became important people in their order/society. And, as the leader of this group who saved the world (okay maybe only Ferelden), the Warden is invited at this peace summit. Then the shit hit the fan and s/he's the only one to survive and become the leader of the Inquisition." I decided I liked where I was leading with that prompt fill, and tweaked it so it flowed better with "A Series of Departures".

         "I have to admit: I was surprised to see you. Cassandra has been quite irritated she could not find you."  
         A light, silvery laugh met the soft-spoken words with their hint of an Orlesian accent. "You have improved at sneaking through the shadows, _lethallan_. Yet _I_ am not surprised to see _you._ " Tucking a lock of hair behind one pointed ear, the Elf turned to smile at Sister Nightingale with amusement glittering in her eyes. "Rumours reached me in Amaranthine of my former companion. I halfway expected to see you glowing with divine light, oh Left Hand of the Divine. That _is_ what they call you these days, yes?"  
         Leliana inclined her head slightly with a gesture for the Elf to follow her a little farther away from the encampment. "Indeed it is. We have both been busy these past ten years. Ugh, but you still look _disgustingly_ youthful, Warden-Commander. I don't know how you do it."  
         "I could say the same to you," her companion countered. It felt a bit strange to come back to Haven, see what was the same and what had changed over the last decade. Obviously the unsettling cult was gone now. And the Creators-cursed dragon. But the snow still fell, and the air still bit at her cheeks, bringing a slight flush to tanned and tattooed skin. And the air was still so clear here with no lights from Amaranthine or from Denerim dimming the silvery beauty of the moon and stars. Idly, the Elf stretched out her hands to watch the snow fall and melt in her fingers, then lifted her head to watch the flakes drift over the star-studded sky. "You look as though you have hardly aged. Matured...but not aged." Light blue eyes darted over to where Leliana now leaned under a tree to watch the Elf. "And it is not Warden-Commander. It is Lavellan now. Éimhir Lavellan."  
         "So Éimhir Surana is no more?" Leliana shrugged. "A pity. She was a charming leader. And I get the impression our Commander has never quite forgotten that charming girl..."  
         The laughter that met the bard's words was wry and accompanied by the softest of crunches as Éimhir meandered over to her old friend, followed by the massive hound that hadn't let the Elf leave his sight since their reunion. "I think he has never forgotten the girl he knew before the Blight. Nor do I suspect he forgot what happened at the Circle. You were there, _lethallan_. And you forget: you are not the only one who keeps tabs on her friends." She sighed and lifted slim shoulders in a brief shrug. "Zevran and I were in Kirkwall for a time while Cullen was Knight-Captain there. Any feelings Cullen has are for a ghost."  
         Surana--no, Lavellan--was familiar with that disbelieving stare levelled her way by her old friend. She didn't even waste energy in arguing when all Leliana said was, "We shall see..." The Elf simply laughed and linked arms with her friend briefly, unable to resist a moment of affection.  
         "We should probably rejoin the others. But I look forward to befriending you, Sister Nightingale."  
         "And I look forward to the tales you will inspire, Éimhir Lavellan. But...no Archdemon, yes? I have had enough of Archdemons for one lifetime."

         Indeed, Cullen had not forgotten the elfin mage. She had changed in the last ten years--which was to be expected--but he knew those luminous blue eyes, the feel of her magic in the air, the shape of her hand when he shook it, despite the fact she once again changed her hairstyle.  
         He remembered when those ashen curls floated like a cloud around her shoulders as the mageling twirled in the middle of the library. She always had a knack for losing the strips of leather or ribbon she used for tying her hair back, so those gossamer strands tumbled down her back more often than they stayed confined in braids or in a tail. But she never cared. If it was pointed out, Éimhir simply laughed and tossed back her hair with a cheerful observation that it would be her own fault if she got something sticky and nasty in it.  
         He remembered the innocence in eyes too large for her kittenish face. Icy blue, with little flecks of silver if one was close enough to see. Cullen had been close enough to see them once, twice, thrice in the years they were at the Circle together. It was like looking into a pool of water: clear and free of impurities. Her every emotion and every thought were clear to see in those shining orbs. Over the years, Cullen would glance into those steady eyes and read curiosity, wistfulness, surprise, delight, embarrassment, shyness, and sweet affection. He might never feel her hands in those years save through gloves or gauntlets when helping her up whenever she stumbled or staggered, but he knew her mind through those eyes and the brief, innocent trysts between Templar and apprentice.  
         In the end, the last thing he saw in her eyes was pain. Pain as he called her his greatest weakness, his greatest sin. Shock and hurt when he repudiated her. He was a broken man then, disillusioned, haunted, and angry. Where once he wanted to protect mages like Surana from the outside world and from themselves, then he wanted to protect the outside world from mages. No longer did he wonder how Surana might have blossomed had she been left with her clan. From that moment on, Cullen didn't question the good of the Circle. Mages were to be restricted for a reason.  
         He thought of her, of Surana, when he finally had a moment to rest and digest, to process everything that happened in Kirkwall. Cullen read at last Knight-Commander Meredith's orders, the ones she hid from him, and it was with mounting horror that he realised what was truly going on. If only he'd questioned. If only he'd been the man he was before the abominations took over the Ferelden Circle, the man who had cared about all people, not just non-mages, and who had cared about a girl with frost at her fingertips and silver bells for laughter. Maybe he could have done something if he had actually cared. And if only he had learned of these things while she visited in Kirkwall, when they could have gone over the horrors together.  
         A pity he cared too late.  
         But now she was here. Cullen hadn't recognised her at first, it was too hectic to care who the blighted prisoner was. He had demons and tears in the Fade to worry about. He had people to save, and apparently a chance that someone could do something about the bloody big hole in the sky. But things were calm for the moment, and it had been all Cullen could do not to stare at her.  
         Actually, he hadn't been all that successful with the not-staring thing. It merely came out more like a glare if the wary look frosty eyes threw his way were any indication. So Cullen didn't blame her when she avoided him, didn't question it when she introduced herself as Lavellan. If she wanted to be a different person who didn't know him, then so be it. He deserved it. He highly doubted those sweet times from almost a decade ago could ever be repeated, no matter what strides had been made to repair their relationship months ago in Kirkwall. No longer did she dance and laugh in his presence, nor her eyes look at him with innocence and admiration.  
         No longer was she Éimhir Surana, mage of the Circle.  
         She was Éimhir Lavellan now, Dalish mage. Now, she was the Herald of Andraste. Maker preserve them all, but she never could be anything less than extraordinary.


	2. Behold the Inquisitor

         Of course, Leliana wasn't oblivious to matters between the Herald of Andraste and the Commander of the Inquisition's army. She merely bided her time until the moment was right, while the old friends, if that was the word for them, reconnected.  
         She noted his relief when at long last, when everyone thought the Elf had surely perished when buying them time to escape, that slim form appeared out of the snow and darkness. Cullen had been perfectly willing to carry her after her collapse, and showed no sign of handing her to anyone else. The bard chuckled to herself and adjusted the cloak someone had pulled out of a pack to wrap around the Herald, and the sound earned her a glance from perplexed, tawny eyes.  
         "Something like this has happened before," Leliana explained while struggling through the snow beside Cullen. "A couple of times, actually. The first time was here, in fact. Did you know a high dragon was in the area ten years ago?"  
         "No, but let me guess: she dealt with it."  
         "Correct. In a battle that nearly brought the mountain down upon us. And then later, it was the Archdemon. Our fair Warden has a knack for getting into trouble, it seems."  
         Cullen let out a short laugh. "Now _that's_ an understatement." He peered into the gloom and let out a sigh of relief at the dim glow of campfires and torches letting them know they were almost at camp. "It's a miracle she survived."  
         "It always has been. A girl like her, thrown into the Circle? And then later, forced to gather together armies to fight against an Archdemon? You have your hands full, Commander. Hopefully this calling will be her last."  
          _I doubt it_ , flitted though Cullen's mind. It was uncanny the trouble Éimhir seemed to get into. Perhaps she really was the Herald of Andraste or sent by the Maker. How else could she have survived the Blight, the events at the Conclave, and now this Elder One and his Archdemon? He sighed and gently placed her on a cot as someone ran to fetch a healer. Leliana was right about one thing: Éimhir had a knack for getting into trouble.  
         He whistled the Herald's Mabari up onto the cot and idly scratched at war-torn ears. Slowly, the shivers eased from a frame too slim to be shuddering so harshly as warmth seeped into Éimhir from Tuvok and a nearby fire. Already Cullen could see bruises forming on the Elf's cheek and forehead. Where else was she hurt? It caused an almost physical pain for the commander to walk away, let the healer do their work while Cullen checked around the encampment again.  
         Seeing her like that...so fragile...it brought to the fore feelings the former Templar had assumed buried. A decade older since their last soft-voiced conversation full of excited tension and a sense of experiencing something forbidden, Cullen paused near the camp perimeter with closed eyes. No. This was not quite the same. The protective feelings were there, yes, and an admiration for her graceful carriage. But it was...different. They were different now. Shaped by years of command and of relative freedom on Éimhir's part. She was liable to get in bigger scrapes than an out-of-control fire these days. Like just recently. The little fool had saved them, but was almost killed by an Archdemon, this...Elder One, or the avalanche she started. Andraste help him, but Cullen had let her, and she hadn't even flinched at the prospect of her death if it meant saving hundreds.

         Éimhir never flinched from the hard tasks these days. After ten years of leading and training Wardens, after fighting in the Blight and going up against both the Mother and the Architect, the Elf was getting rather used to this whole 'do the shit that needs done but others aren't doing' thing. She didn't object to being asked to lead, to scout ahead and find shelter. She didn't object to people depending on her. She didn't protest when Solas merely gave cryptic advice in where to scout, what she might find. He ended up being useful, after all.  
         Only thing she objected to was being called the Herald of Andraste.  
         "I am a Dalish mage!" Éimhir protested once again as she sat in a tree, fretfully plucking at the twigs. "I cannot be their Herald of Andraste. I do not even believe in their religion."  
         "It matters not to them, _lethallan,_ " Solas retorted gently from below her. "What matters is you have survived great trials, and they believe the woman at your back when you exited the Fade was their beloved Andraste. Who is to say it is not a spirit, perhaps of Andraste? History shows she existed."  
         The younger Elf sighed and drooped slightly on her perch. "I...suppose you are right. It is still...unsettling."  
         "I think it suits you."  
         Both Elves startled, their eyes widening, at the sudden appearance of Leliana under Éimhir's tree. While Solas frowned slightly, Éimhir tilted her head at her friend and swung down from her branch. "Alright, Leliana. What is it?"  
         The spymaster smiled and gestured for her old friend to follow her, which Surana--no, Lavellan--did with a wave to the hedge mage they left behind. "I am not in the least bit surprised at what you have accomplished, my friend. You held off Corypheus and his Archdemon--and I did tell you no Archdemons this time, did I not?--and led us here. You have held us together and led this Inquisition since you first closed the Rifts."  
         Cassandra joined them before Éimhir could make any objections to the bard's claims. "The Inquisition requires a leader: the one who has _already_ been leading it."  
         Oh. Bollocks. Éimhir had, mere months ago, thought to herself how she had no desire to lead the Inquisition. She had heard from Zevran and others how the Seekers of Truth were searching for either Surana or Hawke to lead the Inquisition, since both had such profound effects on the countries they defended. Both had charisma and leadership skills. Yet here she stood now, up above a gathering crowd, faced by both the Right and Left Hands of the Divine. And...and...  
         That was a very impressive sword Leliana was offering to her.  
         "I...do not know what to say..." the Elf hedged. She couldn't leave people leaderless, scattered, not if they needed her. But she _didn't want this._  
         "Say that you will not make me regret this."  
         "Why do this if you are not sure?"  
         Cassandra lifted her chin and looked at Surana--Lavellan--the Herald--with dignity. "Because I believe this is what was meant to be, that without you there would be no Inquisition." She stepped aside slightly to open the way between Éimhir and Leliana, who still held the Inquisitor's sword. "What it means for the future, how you lead us, is entirely up to you."  
         Right. Because what could go wrong with having a Dalish mage raised mostly in a Circle be the leader of the Inquisition?  
         Éimhir faced her old friend thoughtfully, who nodded slightly. Leliana at the very least would support her. And she suspected Solas would too. Only recently they had conversed about how highly this human-centric organisation valued her, an Elf, and a mage at that. Cullen...would he support her in this endeavour? A mental shake of the head relegated those thoughts to the back of her mind as a slim hand reached out to take the sword, her other hand coming up to help support it.  
         "Our concern must be the order and safety of this world, not the next," Éimhir declared, light blue eyes travelling up the length of the sword. "I am not 'chosen'." Her eyes were serious as she met Leliana's gaze, then Cassandra's. "I _have_ chosen. And I will lead us to victory."  
         The Lady Seeker nodded, apparently willing to accept this, while Leliana smiled serenely in the background as though all went as expected. "Wherever you lead us."

         No, Leliana was not surprised at this development. Éimhir had always underestimated her ability to lead and inspire others. Not despite the fact she was a mage and an Elf, but _because_ she was these things. With her little body she commanded forces most people could only dream of wielding. Her experiences in the Circle had shaped her, not hardened her, and her appetite for learning was voracious. Leliana recalled with a smile how the then-teenager had pestered Zevran and Leliana both for lessons, gradually developing an affinity for blades, and serenading the camp occasionally with the bard in a sweet soprano.  
         Neither was the spy thrown off in the slightest by Cullen's support of the new Inquisitor. Despite his attempts to avoid Sister Nightingale's inquiries and Éimhir's objections to any lingering feelings...there was something there. Perhaps the man wasn't utterly hopeless. He seemed receptive to evidence of Éimhir's command abilities. And perhaps Leliana could spin a happy ending for the young woman who once again carried a duty quite large for such slender shoulders.  
         The bard's eyes tracked a familiar, silvery-haired little form gliding across the courtyard, and a smile flitted over Leliana's face. Yes...she would quite enjoy that. The tale of the Warden ended this day. The legend of the Inquisitor began. And perhaps...perhaps, like that miracle ten years ago, a red blossom would bloom from a plant thought grey and dead.


	3. Spring Showers

         The Inquisitor was halfway across the courtyard when the skies opened to pour down their bounty. Rain was useful, yes, and shrieks of laughter and surprise alike rang out from stone walls as people ducked for cover or scurried to move building materials and goods out of the rain. Lavellan's voice was one that rose with laughter as she hurried out of the rain.  
         Rain was good for the little garden of herbs one of the mages had set up. It was also a reminder to Éimhir of how lucky she was to be free, even if it meant she was once again spearheading a cause. She smiled wryly and stuck a hand out the window to feel the rain fall, cool on her skin. It was a sensation she had missed out on for seven years of her life.  
         "Never could see the rain in the Tower."  
         Silvery hair floated in a little cloud as the Elf whipped her head around. Ah...she had been near Cullen's office when the rain started. Part of her insisted she had serious business with the man. Part of her declared that was just an excuse. Either way: they were in a room, alone together, for the first time in weeks. Or was it months? Both the Inquisitor and her Commander had been too busy since their arrival at Skyhold for proper one-on-one conversation.  
         A little, wistful smile tugged at her lips. "By the time I was recognised as a mage and could go up to the top of the Tower, there was no rain. It was further south." Softly, she sighed and reached out once more to feel the rain, watching the droplets fall fat and fast before her.  
         "It was a dark existence there, for all the protection the Tower offered." When Éimhir turned her head to look at Cullen as he spoke, she saw him tugging off his gloves as he approached. "It took me a little while to realise how the odd feeling I had was due to the lack of windows. No sun rising and setting to mark the passage of time. Sometimes you couldn't even tell if it was raining or sunny."  
         "I learned how to determine the weather by the temperature of the outer walls," the mage replied. And she wasn't really joking. If the stone was warm, likely the sun shone. If it was cool, the rains were falling. The memories flowed through her mind as she watched Cullen reach out into the rain, like she had just moments before. "Are you sure the magic permeating the air didn't have something to do with your discomfort?"  
         The Commander shrugged. The fingers of his outstretched hand curled in towards the palm with a heavy sigh and his eyes remained aimed somewhere out in the rain. "I...no. I don't think so. I was a different person then. You know that."  
         She did. Honestly, Éimhir did. She looked at him now, and there were lines around his eyes that weren't there ten years prior. His face had filled out, become more strong-jawed and less gaunt. There was even a scar on his lips, probably from some skirmish she missed out on. His eyes were haunted when before they had been so open.  
         But sometimes, when Cullen wasn't aware she was in the area, he laughed softly, and the sound was so much younger. He would tilt his head a certain way, or make a nervous gesture, and it was all familiar to the mage.  
         And yet he'd held such antipathy towards mages when she saw him in Kirkwall. Maybe not antipathy. But certainly distrust. And he'd been quite... _venomous_ when they parted that last time in Ferelden. It made her wonder if those feelings had always been there, buried under a sense of duty and a desire to do good. But whatever Cullen's feelings were towards mages, Éimhir had to admit he was, overall, a good man.  
         Maybe some of what she was thinking showed on her face. The Elf had no idea how expressive her eyes were to Cullen. She simply knew it was always impossible to lie to him, so maybe he still knew her well. But whatever he saw when he looked at her had his own expression shifting, his eyes widening, looking away for a moment in disbelief before turning his head towards her again.  
         "Éimhir..." The ex-Templar stooped slightly with a non-threatening tilt of his head so he was closer to his leader's height and not towering over her quite so much. "I do not like the man I was back then, after...what happened. I was angry, and you did not deserve that of me. It...wasn't your fault. I cannot take back those words I threw at you, but please: believe me when I say I am not that man any longer. Not the man you left in Ferelden, or the one you found in Kirkwall."  
         She _wanted_ to believe. The man she left, broken, in an equally broken Tower, would not have let himself be alone in a closed room with her, let alone step so close to her. The man she left in Kirkwall would not have removed his gloves and enjoyed the feel of the rain on his skin with her. The man before her gave sound advice and commanded loyalty and respect from his men. He carried her down the mountainside when she collapsed from exhaustion. This man looked at her, a pleading light in his eyes, no contempt in his face.  
         "I..." Éimhir hesitated and tipped her head so she looked up at Cullen from a slight angle. "I want to believe you. It is far better than the alternative. Therefore I will give you the benefit of the doubt."  
          _Do not let me down._  
         No sooner had she thought that, and the Elf found herself the recipient of a relieved and lopsided smile. _The scar is a lovely addition_ , she mused in the wake of a surprised blink on her part. It turned what would have been a sweet smile into something more bold, added a devil-may-care flair to the expression. She might well end up liking this new Cullen.  
         Her thoughts were soon derailed by the former Templar speaking up. "Since it looks like the rain will continue for a while, should we play a game of chess? Assuming you still play, that is."  
         "I still play! Prepare the board, Commander Cullen!"

         Part of Cullen wasn't surprised to hear Éimhir still played chess. She had always looked forward to the sporadic matches they were able to set up. Now, she settled across from him without the air of trepidation the sixteen-year-old Éimhir Surana held. She steepled in front of her face fingers that were still so slender. It still amazed Cullen at times to watch her twirl a staff in complicated patterns as she cast her spells. Perhaps it was even more amazing to watch the Elf bludgeon her enemies with a ferocity he hadn't known before from her.  
         But some things never changed. When Cullen turned the board obligingly so she had the white pieces, her teeth caught at one side of her lower lip, worrying at it as she pondered her first move. Her wrist was still slender when her sleeve slid back to expose it. There was still a certain grace in her motions, whether she was placing a piece or sitting back in her seat.  
         "I don't think I ever mentioned where I learned how to play," he remarked as he made his move. The words earned him a wry smile from the Elf seated across from him, and a shake of silvery hair.  
         "There are a lot of things neither of us talked about." Cullen's eyes watched narrow shoulders lift and fall in a shrug, watched delicate fingers toy with a pawn. "We were a lot younger then. And bound by many rules. If one of the other Templars had caught us..."  
         "You are still young." The commander shook his head as he spoke softly. And it was the truth. The past decade had added confidence to a tiny body that had seemed so fragile. When she was younger--when he himself was younger--it aroused protective instincts. But time had turned a delicate blossom into one made of flexible steel: sharp, adaptive, unbreakable. Yet time had not aged her. There was still a freshness to her face, a light in her eyes, energy to her movements as he saw her go about her business. If Éimhir had waist-length hair and apprentice robes, she could pass for the apprentice he first met almost fifteen years ago. "At any rate, I used to play with my sister. She would get this stuck-up grin when she won, which was always. My brother and I practiced together for weeks. Oh, the look on her face the day I finally won..." Cullen chuckled.  
         He was rewarded by a spark of interest in luminous eyes. "How many siblings do you have?"  
         "Three. Two sisters, and a brother. You?"  
         "None. Though I could count friends at the Circle as family...but...I believe most or all of them died during..." The Inquisitor shook her head, unable to continue that thought.  
         Cullen reached out and engulfed a slim hand in his much larger, gloved one. This too was like the past. Always, always, always, there had been leather, cloth, or metal barring their skin from touching. But this could change. He quietly resolved that if the opportunity arose, if Éimhir was so inclined...he would touch her hand without gloves. "I'm still here."  
         A soft, bell-like laugh was his reward, as was a smile. "You are _definitely_ not a sibling, Cullen."  
         And the words sent a certain hope rushing through his veins.  
         But the moment was ruined by Éimhir commenting, "Your turn, I believe."  
         It was...nice. The rain pattering or pouring by turns outside. No soldiers or spies coming with reports or problems. Just the Commander, the Inquisitor, the chess board, a bottle of wine, and the tray of bread and cheese he had forgotten about. A cursory sniff of the cheese and examination of the bread confirmed both were fit to eat, but both Cullen and Éimhir agreed they had eaten worse in the past than stale bread and warm cheese.  
         He got to learn many things about the Herald's life during the Blight. How she learned how to cook in self-defence after experiencing how King Alistair--at the time Warden Alistair--cooked stew. Her nights out under the stars, enjoying a sky she hadn't seen for much of her life.  
         "I suppose good things can come from tragedy then," Cullen mused as he made his move. "Without your involvement in Jowan's escape attempt, without the Blight...you might never have been free. You might have been caught in the Tower with the rest of us."  
         "But it is not so...enjoyable to have danger attracted to me." She wrinkled her nose, and it drew a soft chuckle from the ex-Templar. "I had _just_ been thinking I was glad the Inquisition hadn't found me, when my Keeper sent me to the Conclave. Our Keeper was certain that though it was a Chantry function, the Conclave would affect the Dalish as well. Look where it has landed me."  
         "You certainly have a knack for trouble, Lady Inquisitor."  
         "So I do." She smiled wryly, but the expression soon softened. "Yet look at what it has earned me: a chance to talk to you properly. No Templar-mage barriers. No threat of prison for either of us, or punishment. And we have the chance to play chess again."  
         Cullen had been thinking much the same thing over the past few months. It had scared him, in a way. But...it was a chance. A chance to do things over again. And the fact she agreed made him smile. "You're right," he agreed softly. Leaning forward in his seat, he shifted slightly and tilted his head thoughtfully. "You know, up until just now, this has been the longest we've gone without talking about the Inquisition, or related matters. To be honest, I appreciate the distraction."  
         "Indeed." Éimhir took a sip of her wine. "We should do this more often, spend more time together. It has been too long."  
         He agreed, and smiled over the fact she had voiced his feelings on the matter. "I would like that."  
         When he made another move--which apparently would be his last--Cullen was stunned at what he saw: Éimhir had won the game. "I believe this one is yours," the commander declared in some surprise. He leaned back, slowly smiling with admiration. "Well played. You've obviously been practicing."

         It was gratifying. Only took ten years apart, but Éimhir had finally beaten Cullen at chess. She couldn't really suppress her grin of delight or tamp down a glow of satisfaction at his admiring expression. "I had a good teacher. And indeed, I practiced. One of my friends in the Wardens could give you a run for your money."  
         She enjoyed this, the camaraderie. Maybe it was the fact they were alone, no interruptions from the Inquisition forces. Maybe it was the rain still pounding on the glass. Maybe it was the wine--they were onto the second bottle--and the candlelight. But Éimhir found herself nodding when Cullen softly suggested another match.  
         The Elf had been serious in her desire to do this more often. Maybe it would only happen if another warm storm occurred, or during a snow storm. But she would enjoy whatever moments they could steal away together. And the thought brought a gentle smile to soft lips.  
         "White again, milady?"  
         "Mm, please. And another glass of wine, please. We should even the playing field this time."


	4. Spring Flowers

         A few days after Éimhir's triumph over her Commander at chess, the mage could be found gently tracing soft petals on the buds of a bush. They still clung together, reluctant to unfurl in the cool mountain air. It was warmer inside the courtyards walled in by Skyhold than outside on the open mountainside. But still, the tiny buds were not yet ready to blossom into bloom.  
         It reminded her of herself: afraid to open up in case the warmth she craved was actually cold. What if the light she glimpsed was merely an illusion, and grey clouds waited to roll in again?  
         The Inquisitor scowled at herself then smoothed her expression out lest the innocent buds think she was scowling at them. "You should open yourselves to the sun," the mage encouraged. Wryly, she smiled and directed that thought at herself. She was Éimhir Surana, survivor of Ostagar, vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, Commander of the Grey. She was Éimhir Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, leader of the Inquisition.  
         She was terrified.  
         She was vulnerable.  
         But maybe...so was he.  
         Cullen had so many demons he dealt with. The Circle of Magi. Kirkwall. Freeing himself from lyrium. The memories and the withdrawal were daily battles for him, worse than what Éimhir faced on a daily basis. And yet he really was more gentle to her these days than he had been after the disaster at the Tower of Magi.  
         Should she take the chance?  
         ...She should.

         Thoughts of Éimhir flowed through his mind as delicately as the young woman herself. Cullen braced his hands on his heavy, oaken desk and drew in a slow, shaky breath. He prepared to mentally castigate himself for letting the Elf have an emotional hold on him before the Commander stopped with a sense of dawning revelation.  
         He didn't need to feel guilty.  
         He wasn't a Templar any longer.  
         It had been a decision he made, yes, but it hadn't really sunk in. Not completely. He still had felt a sense of shame at imagining what he would say if Éimhir told him she still cared. He chastised himself over the past few months for wanting to pull her against his chest when the day was done and at last feel her form without cold, hard metal barring the softness of her body against his, forgiving clothing the only barrier. He had cursed himself for wanting to kiss the Inquisitor to see if she still tasted of tea and peaches.  
         But Cullen didn't need to do that.  
         He was free. Free to have these thoughts, to have hopes, to spin dreams that had been so illicit.  
         The Commander straightened while feeling like a load had been lifted from his shoulders, and resolved to resume work. There were duties better done now rather than later, and he couldn't give any less to the Inquisition and to Éimhir than he had to the Chantry.  
         Duties that were always added to when there was a knock on his door like now.

         "Enter!"  
         The Elf frowned slightly at the irritated tone to Cullen's voice, but pushed the door open nonetheless. Obviously she wasn't whomever he had expected, because his expression shifted from something between stoic and exasperated to one of surprise. "Is this a bad time, Cullen?"  
         "Maker's breath, no! I thought you were--never mind." He shook his head and sighed while Éimhir relaxed. Slightly. "Was there something you needed?"  
         "Do you have a moment to talk?" Thinking of what she had to talk about, the Inquisitor paused, met Cullen's gaze. "Alone?"  
         He seemed bemused, perhaps even a bit apprehensive. "A-alone? I-I mean, of course!"  
         Ha...like _he_ had any reason to be nervous. Éimhir held back a sigh as she signalled for her hound (who seemed quite happy to receive pets from Cullen) to stay behind in the office, and again as she walked alongside her Commander in awkward silence to the battlements. Cullen didn't have to worry about how to phrase what she wanted to say. He wasn't in a position of worrying over potentially alienating an advisor...  
         "It's a nice day."  
         The words broke through a haze of worry, and the Inquisitor glanced up at Cullen. She didn't really listen to what he said and felt lost. "What?" she queried blankly. Too many worries filled the Elf's head.  
         She registered he was rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Cullen even seemed a bit stiff. Why was he nervous? "It's..." Finally, he looked down and met her gaze. Was...was there a bit of curiosity there? Her old flame certainly became more confident. "There was something you wished to discuss."  
         Yes. Right. Discuss. She had something to discuss. Éimhir held her breath for a moment, uncertain, before plunging right in, words pouring out of her. "Cullen, I care for you. I always have, even when you were a bit of a prick..." Smooth, Warden-Commander Surana. Smooth, Inquisitor Lavellan. "I am not handling this well."  
         Cullen's expression was confused, but gentle. A good sign. As was the gentle tone he used when he asked, "What's wrong?"  
         "It has been so long, and so much has changed. You have left the Templars. We have both grown as people. But...I cannot change being a mage, or what happened back in Ferelden." There was no holding back her sigh this time, or the anxiety as Éimhir stared up at the man she had crushed on as a teen and cherished now, ten years later. "Is there--Could you--Have your feelings changed?"  
         The most important question now.  
         "Is there any way you could care for me again, think of me as someone special to you?"  
         No confusion now in his expression. The serious, confident gleam to the former Templar's eyes was new. "I could. I mean, I-I do," he asserted before looking down with a wry twist to his lips. But his words made the Elf's heart leap. They brought hope, especially when Cullen continued. "I even thought about what I might say if you still cared."  
         Éimhir blinked with confusion and her brow furrowed. "What stopped you before?"  
         "You're the Inquisitor now, Éimhir! And we're at war." Cullen shook his head before bowing it almost wearily, glancing up at the Inquisitor from the slightly subservient position. "Not to mention, it's been over ten years since we last...I wasn't in the best frame of mind the last time we spoke. It seemed impossible."  
         "Consider it very possible, Cullen," the young woman retorted softly. "What we had...I think it was real. But we never really got to know of each other more than a few things we had in common. We did not get to know each other deeper, so it did not..." It didn't survive when tested severely. "But things are different. And I am here now."  
         The Commander's expression gentled and he shifted his weight, subtly moving closer to Éimhir as she leaned back against the battlement. He even smiled a little as his voice grew softer. "So you are...it almost seems too much to ask. But I want to..."  
         Creators! Éimhir's eyes darted down to Cullen's lips as he moved closer still, her heart rate picking up. Would he kiss her? She suspected he would be a fantastic kisser. The bloody man had a change to his walk, to the general air around him, even some of the things he said, which made the mage suspect he'd filled in some of the gaps in his education. Some things improve with age, after all.  
         Her lashes had even fluttered down over her eyes to rest against prominent cheekbones. Her lips were parted, she could feel his breath on her skin...  
         "Commander!"

         Andraste's flaming--  
         Cullen straightened up, startled and irritated, at the opening of the door from tower to battlements, and the call of his title. A sharp breath hissed in through his teeth as he squeezed his eyes shut in irritation. While rank hath its privileges, this was not one of them. He enjoyed the blush on Éimhir's cheeks when he glanced down at her, but did not enjoy her mortification. Or the interruption. Or the apparent idiocy of his men when they couldn't tell by the fact he had a beautiful young woman caged against a sturdy stone wall that he was busy.  
         "You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report."  
         Irritation tensing every muscle, the Commander slowly turned to see the soldier in question wasn't even looking up to see what was going on. _"What?"_ Cullen growled. Was it really that important? Maybe it would be, later, but it wasn't now. He had other things he'd rather be doing. With the person he blocked from view as he turned to face the hapless messenger.  
         But the man wasn't getting the message. Points for earnestness, yes, as he insisted, "Sister Leliana's report? You wanted it delivered 'without delay', ser."  
         Oh, Maker's breath. Cullen didn't bother hiding his irritation. He glowered--glared--as he stepped forward to loom over the messenger. _Are you sure about that?_ tawny eyes seemed to say without words ever exiting the commander's mouth.  
         And at last, the soldier seemed to get it. Maybe because he saw what his Commander had tried to hide from view. But at least he cringed now and began backing away nervously as he realised his error. "Or...to your office...right..."  
         Cullen's mood was still soured. A low, pervading pain from his lyrium withdrawal didn't help matters. It certainly didn't curb his glare aimed at the retreating messenger. Ah, but Cullen had other things to attend to. Right now. Before anyone else could interrupt. Particularly since Éimhir looked a mixture of mortified and miserable and like she was going to try coming up with an excuse for him.  
         Good luck with that.  
         It was a bit hard for his Lady Inquisitor to talk when she had Cullen's lips sealed to hers, a hand snaking to the base of her skull in support against a desperate kiss fuelled by ten years of conflicted regrets and more recently renewed longing. Certainly hard to talk when his tongue was coaxing Éimhir's lips to part for him. Especially hard to talk when their mouths fused and tongues clashed as Cullen bowed over her, pulling her to his chest, shoulders hunching to shield her from prying eyes. Not that she seemed to be objecting.

         In fact, Éimhir even let out a little whimper that was muffled by Cullen's kiss.  
         It seemed her suspicions were correct: his kisses _had_ improved. Their first--and last--kiss had been a hasty thing. Their teeth had clashed, making them giggle even as their eyes watered, before they tried again. Two clumsy innocents back then.  
         When the former Templar slowly ended this new kiss of theirs and pulled back, Éimhir opened her eyes in something of a daze. He, on the other hand, seemed anxious. Almost like her Mabari, Tuvok, when caught doing something questionable. "I-I'm sorry...that was...um...really nice." Oh, and that little smile at the end...  
         The Inquisitor shook her head and caressed his stubbled cheek with a small smile of her own. "I would say that was more than 'really nice', _vehnan."_  
         It didn't seem to matter she had slipped into Elvhen without thinking for that endearment. Her words apparently brought back Cullen's confidence and a somewhat rakish half-smile as he murmured, "Oh, good," before claiming her lips again.  
         Yes, Éimhir decided as she curved her arms around her love's bulk. Cullen had become a good kisser at some point in the last decade. She was a very fortunate little woman.

         Emerging from her office for the first time in hours, Josephine stretched and sighed. She enjoyed her job! Mostly. Sometimes she needed to sneak away from it for a bit though. Like now. Feel the sunshine on her skin, let it warm her after cool air nipped at her cheeks on the initial foray outside.  
         The ambassador paused by a bush and smiled, charmed. When a familiar, Orlesian-accented voice asked, "What is so amusing, Josie?" she turned to her friend and beckoned.  
         "These were still little buds when I came out here this morning. Now look."  
         Pristine white blossoms had cautiously begun to unfurl. The first petals opening to the sun almost seemed to shine against the warmth of Josephine's skin as she cradled one of the blooms. Something so fragile, but gaining strength.  
         Now it was Leliana's turn to smile. For the flowering bush, and for the blossom she could see on the distant parapet, opening to a sun denied to it for years.


	5. Thoughts on a Breeze

         She kissed him.  
         To be fair, it was more that _he_ kissed _her_ , though Éimhir certainly hadn't objected. The memory had her smiling as she sat on a boulder near the edge of camp, watching the sun set. She remembered the crashing of his mouth against hers, the surprise, how Cullen made her legs go weak and her body sag between the Commander and the sturdy stone wall.  
         "Naughty thoughts, my dear?"  
         Éimhir turned at Dorian's teasing words and made a face at him. Naughty...? No, not really. Delightful...? Yes, most certainly. "If anyone is thinking naughty thoughts, it is you," she countered with a disdainful sniff. One she didn't mean, but properly disdainful-sounding nonetheless. "I can practically hear you drooling over certain members of our party."  
         "I am the very _soul_ of discretion! And I _never_ drool!" Taking his turn to let out a disdainful noise, Dorian flapped a hand dismissively. "But you have been rather starry-eyed for the past couple of days. Something good happened, I take it?"  
         "You might say that." A giggle escaped. It was light, giddy, rather un-Inquisitorial. Something... _girlish_. But then again, Éimhir was a girl. Some might consider her an old maid at 26, but overall, she was...young. There were some things which couldn't be eradicated even by the strictures of the Circle, including a sense of romance, and wonder when that romance was indulged.  
         The Tevinter mage let out a bark of laughter. "Fine! Keep your secrets! See if I care!"  
         "And yet with those words, I know you are _insatiably_ curious." She giggled again and lifted a hand to hold her hair down against a cool breeze. "All will become clear, _lethallin._ Eventually."  
         "You're lucky I like you. It means I'll put up with your mysterious shit."

         She kissed him.  
         Cullen chuckled at the direction his thoughts took him before sipping at his wine. The first time he really had a break in a few days to sit, eat leisurely instead of wolfing his food down between meetings and training, and his mind went to that day up on the wall.  
         To be fair, _he_ kissed _her._ It was something the former Templar had wanted to do...for quite some time. Longer than he could really remember. He could still recall wincing after his teeth clacked against 16-year-old Éimhir Surana's in their first kiss. This one, his first with the new Éimhir, hadn't nearly been so disastrous. Or sweet.  
         It had been desperate. Cullen saw her mortified face, the moment potentially lost, how she gathered up to give him an excuse if he wanted to leave. And he just...he had to let her know: he really did want to kiss her. Right then and there. So he did, with all the fervour of a decade of loneliness and months of longing. In hindsight, it wouldn't have been surprising if Éimhir had been scared off by that.  
         But then she smiled.  
         It wasn't her Inquisitor smile of neutrality and graciousness. It was a little dazed, eyelashes fluttering, her swollen lips curving gently. There had been a flush on her cheeks, and when those icy eyes met his anxious gaze...Cullen knew he did well from the way they shone.  
         He sighed now and pushed himself up away from his desk to open a window. A chilled breeze brushed over his cheek as the Commander leaned against the sill and gazed out at the darkening scenery, goblet in hand. Rumours were already spreading in stunned whispers throughout the barracks. The poor messenger who had been subjected to Cullen's glare probably started them. Oh, Maker, or one of the three guards he now recalled patrolling that stretch of the battlements.  
         He wondered if the rumours had gotten further than that...

         Unbeknownst to Cullen, Éimhir wasn't getting any flak from her companions. Oh, Dorian teased. As per usual. But not about her and the Commander.  
         It felt pretty miraculous that nobody had figured out yet who she really was. Having Hawke at Skyhold served as a pretty good distraction. When they got back, Varric was a bit too busy avoiding Cassandra and spending time with the petite redhead to use his sharp wit and observation skills on the Inquisitor. Iron Bull was spending time with the Chargers. Dorian had new books to read. Éimhir wasn't sure what everyone else was doing, but she would wait to check in on them.  
         "Penny for your thoughts, _vhenan?"_  
         Cullen turned from where he leaned against the window sill as a breeze swirled in and rustled papers on his desk. "Inquisitor! I mean...Éimhir." When he chuckled, the Elf smiled at the rich, warm sound, and quietly entered his office, closing the door behind her. "I'm glad you're back."  
         Gently, she laid the palm of her right hand against Cullen's cheek, fingers caressing the stubble he didn't have time to shave. "And I am glad to be back. What were you thinking of though?"  
         "Rumours about us are already flying. You wouldn't believe how fast they move through the barracks."  
         The Commander sounded almost harassed, making Éimhir tilt her head questioningly as her eyes searched his tired face. "Does that bother you?"  
         He sighed and kissed the palm of her hand before taking her wrist in a gloved grip, pressing her hand to the cold metal covering his chest. "I would prefer that my-- _our_ \--private affairs remained private. But I would regret it if there was nothing for them to gossip about." Gently, he tucked a lock of silvery hair behind Éimhir's ear when the breeze blew the soft strands about her face. "Sorry, I should close the window. I just wanted a bit of fresh air."  
         "Why not simply come with me?" The Inquisitor tilted her head and gestured to the door. "Unless...you cannot spare the time?"  
         "No!" Cullen sighed after his outburst. "I mean...for you, I can make time. I apologise, Éimhir. Today is...not a good day."  
         Probably meaning his withdrawal symptoms were causing problems for him. All the more reason for him to take a break, get out of the confines of his office for a little while. She sighed softly, gripping Cullen's hand. It wasn't as effective as the other way around, since the Elf's hand was so much smaller, but it got his attention. "Come with me."  
         "Éimhir!" Despite his protests, the Commander didn't pull back when his Inquisitor tugged him out into the cool air.  
         The wind was stronger, had more bite when they were up on the wall, whipping the Elf's hair about her face until it suddenly subsided. Heavy warmth was draped over her shoulders, and something soft brushed her cheeks. Fur. A glance at her shoulder showed dark, deep red fur. One of Cullen's surcoats. And he stood in the path of the wind to block it from bowling her narrow frame over. A giggle escaped from Éimhir, despite how helpful Cullen was, at the sight of his soft, golden locks fluffing like a cloud or a halo around his head in the sunlight.  
         "You're welcome," Cullen grumbled. Of course: he was blissfully unaware of how the wind puffed up his hair and the mantle of fur on his surcoat. "You know, you shouldn't come up here without a cloak, or a coat. You could catch a chill."  
         "Not with you here to fuss over me." She sighed, but accepted the warmth her Commander provided to her after days on the road, after dealing with rogue Templars and crazed wolves. "...One of these days, we will have to spend time together without your armour."  
         "And one of these days, you will learn to wear a cloak."  
         Éimhir's soft laughter was muffled in the fur of Cullen's surcoat as he hugged her against him, the breeze picking up into a serious wind up there on the wall. And then, it was stopped rather effectively by the decisive pressure of his lips against the Elf's.  
         The kiss was slower than that initial embrace they shared...what, a week ago, all told? Instead of caged against the wall, Éimhir was encased in Cullen's arms. She shared his warmth. His lips gentled after the initial 'just shut up' aspect of his kiss. And unlike last time, he didn't stop to apologise. Cullen simply let one hand slide down to spread out over the small of her back, the other threading through her hair. It was so much sweeter this time, and they simply...enjoyed the moment instead of desperately clinging to each other, tongues practically fighting and the couple fusing at the lips. Cullen was so much more gentle this time. No less in control of the situation. But definitely tender.  
         "Penny for your thoughts?"  
         Her eyes drifted open to find Cullen's face still so close to hers. Was that...? He was smiling. "I like the way you kiss."  
         A soft chuckle slipped from his lips as he bumped noses with Éimhir. "Oh, good. I like the way you kiss too."  
         "Feeling better?"  
         "Much."

         Back in Cullen's office, the Commander carefully removed his surcoat from around Éimhir's shoulders and draped it over the back of his chair. His head felt a little clearer now that he'd spent some time outdoors. The kisses didn't hurt matters either.  
         He felt the cool touch of his little love's fingers in his hair and stayed still as she finger-combed his hair back. When she came around in front of the former Templar, his hands came up to rest on her hips. Delicate. Éimhir always gave him that impression, no matter the magic he watched her conjure. And her touch was so gentle as she smoothed his hair down. It made his gaze soften and his face relax, the Commander nuzzling into one slim palm as her hands drifted down from his hair.  
         "That kiss, last time. How long have you wanted to do that?"  
         Cullen was relaxed now and in a good frame of mind to answer Éimhir's softly-voiced question. "Longer than I should admit..."  
         "So Leliana was right about your feelings."  
         He must have looked confused, because the Inquisitor laughed, the sound as light as the air rushing by the now-closed window. "She told me a while back how she suspected you still had feelings for me. She, ah...was with me when we rescued you."  
         Quietly, Cullen drew Éimhir with him to his chair, settling her slender body in his lap with a sigh. A shadow settled over her face and dimmed the glow of her eyes. No doubt she was remembering the state she had found him in, back at Kinloch Hold. But of course Leliana knew. Wouldn't be much of a spymaster if she wasn't observant. "She was correct. Embarrassing, but...correct." He sighed and gently encouraged the Elf to tuck her head against his shoulder. "I love you. I'm not sure if it's 'still' or 'again'...but I do."  
         "That is the important part. The now."  
         The Commander tugged off his gloves and began gently stroking his lady's hair. She was right: the 'now' mattered. They had a war to get through, a world to save. But here, in this chair, the wind picking up and bringing with it the first pattering of an incoming storm's rain or ice, the current moment mattered. How Cullen delicately tilted an oh-so-stubborn chin up for a soft kiss mattered.  
         All other concerns could fly away on the wind for just this moment.


	6. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Anchor isn't always obedient and activating only when the Inquisitor calls upon it. Nor is it the most exquisite sensation in all of Thedas. And the Inquisitor can't handle it without a little help at the moment.

         It was a very...very long day, that was certain. Éimhir blew a strand of hair out of her face as she led her horse to the stables. While she didn’t have quite the same relationship yet with her horse that she’d developed with her clan’s halla, she was working towards that rapport. Even if she was exhausted from a day of closing rifts, wielding magic, and travel, it was important to take care of her mount. Didn’t matter how her muscles screamed or her head felt heavy.  
         Lavellan was used to pushing hard. She had pushed herself as Warden Surana, on the run from bounty hunters, using violence and diplomacy alike in enforcing Grey Warden treaties, the fate of Ferelden on her narrow shoulders. Warden-Commander Surana had been the one driven the hardest during the rebuilding of the Wardens in Ferelden, in the fight against the Mother and against the Architect. Selflessness was expected in a First, putting the needs of the clan above her own. It was why she didn’t complain as she removed and tended to the saddle, which Éimhir was prepared to claim weighed half her own weight. She didn’t ask for help in removing, checking, cleaning, and putting away the rest of the tack, or in grooming and watering the gelding before finally staggering away from the stables.  
         No sound escaped her lips, though it felt like fire and lightning had taken up residence in her left hand.  
         This wasn’t the first time this had happened. That time, Cassandra had warned her the mark was growing, spreading, killing her. Only Solas’ efforts had kept it from spreading faster and killing her during the three days she was unconscious.  
         But it didn’t feel like the mark was spreading now. Just...sending pain shooting up her arm, practically making her vibrate from the agony. Lavellan could handle pain. But this was intense, almost soul-deep. It was all she could do to keep from crying out.  
         Night was falling. If it weren’t for the fact the Anchor glowed and sent flickers of eerie green light up her arm, Éimhir might have been nearly invisible as the pain sent her to her knees. Yet still she remained silent. Still her jaw stayed clenched, her facial muscles tense. Even her eyes squeezed shut as the Elf focused on breathing through the pain. Dimly, she heard someone call her name, then another voice, but her mind and mouth weren’t up to responding. Her right hand tightly gripped her left wrist as she bowed over her hand, cradling the source of her agony to her chest, as if protecting the Anchor physically would ease the torment. Éimhir was in no state to protest when she was scooped up and cradled against a metal-clad chest, fur brushing at her cheek.

         She was positively ashen when he saw her collapsed near the stables. Honestly: the Inquisitor’s skin nearly matched her hair in tone. The sickly light from her mark didn’t really help the impression of illness. Neither did the tremors wracking her body or the way she pressed her face into his shoulder.  
         “Is there any way I can help?”  
         Éimhir (theoretically) safely in his arms, Cullen glanced down at his old friend, Hawke. Unlike the Elf, the petite redhead’s hair practically glowed like a flame in the night, and her pallor was just a side effect of being a redhead. Freckles looked like mud spatters across her face in the falling dark, and eyes that were a brighter blue than Éimhir’s met the Commander’s worried gaze with a solemnity that was unusual for Hawke.  
         Cullen’s mouth opened to say she had helped quite a bit by dragging him over after finding Éimhir, but the Inquisitor trembled with the effort of keeping silence in the face of her pain. This was the first time he’d seen her like this, seen her mark act this way, and...reluctantly...he had to admit to himself he had no idea what to do.  
         “Find Solas. He’s the hedge mage—an Elf. He’s probably in the rotunda,” came out tersely instead. Cullen knew the rogue trotted at his heels despite the long strides the ex-Templar took. “Tell him the Anchor is active and the Inquisitor has collapsed. I’m taking her to her room.”  
         He wanted to take her back to his tower. He wanted to look after Éimhir himself. But they were trying to be discreet about their relationship. There was also the fact access to his bedroom was via ladder. A return to boyhood by having ladder access to a loft of a bedroom was devilishly inconvenient at the moment...It left Cullen with no choice but to take the stairs through a passage still undergoing some repairs, up to the Inquisitor’s chambers.  
         The suite was sparse. Exceedingly so. Renovations had yet to be completed, but it was habitable. Most importantly: it had a bed Cullen could gently lay his burden upon.  
         The soft whimper she finally let slip nearly broke his heart. Sweat beaded on a brow marked by delicately curving vallaslin while her eyes screwed up even more. Cullen could only imagine the pain Éimhir was going through. At times, Cullen’s withdrawal was that agonising, and accompanied by horrid nightmares, dreams of those days of torture at Kinloch Hold, exhaustion and weakened muscles as the fit passed. If the Maker was merciful, Éimhir would only have the pain.  
         A slam as the door opened had Cullen jerk his hand away from the Inquisitor’s brow and fly to his sword, only to relax again when he saw who entered: Aubrey Hawke, with a scowling Solas and a concerned Varric striding in behind her. “Can you help her?” was the Commander’s only concern.  
         “This magic is unlike any other, Commander.” Whether that was rebuke or doubt, Cullen had no idea, but Solas knelt gracefully by the bed, like a feather floating to the floor. “I will do my best. The Anchor doesn’t seem to be spreading.”  
         After that, the hedge mage was silent, and magic filled the air.  
         There was soft murmuring near the door, the rich rumble of Varric’s voice. Probably filling Hawke in on the Anchor and the Inquisitor, judging by the questioning interruptions by a soprano voice. But Cullen and Solas remained silent, as did their Inquisitor. Her right hand gripped at the former Templar’s fingers in a silent bid for endurance, and he could feel the precise moment when her grip slackened.  
         “I sent her into sleep,” Solas supplied when Cullen’s head lifted to check Éimhir’s expression only to see her face was less tense but her eyes still closed. “Back in Haven, her unconscious state was worrying. But sleep can be a mercy for her now.”  
         “I do not doubt you...” Cullen stroked back silvery hair and squeezed Éimhir’s hand even though he doubted she could feel it. Sleep was a mercy from his pain, but nightmares were his new torment when sleep claimed him. Hopefully it was not the same for her now. He wouldn’t wish that on her.

         The Commander stayed when Hawke and Varric and then Solas left the room. Éimhir still slept, even when Cullen removed his surcoat and armour before slipping into her bed. She didn’t stir when he cradled her limp form against his warm body. At least she didn’t seem bothered by the periodic flickering of her mark.  
         Gently, Cullen massaged at his love’s left wrist, thumb circling over the heel of her hand while avoiding the Anchor. He held his breath and stilled his movements when the Elf murmured softly, but she subsided into sleep once more.  
         “I heard our fair lady was bedridden.”  
         Cullen’s head whipped around and his hand flew to the grip of his sword, which was propped within reach. Ah. It was the Tevinter mage. Dorian. The former Templar nodded and sighed as Dorian let his hands drop from their non-threatening position up near the level of the mage’s shoulders. Of course the news flew when something happened to the Inquisitor. Hopefully it was restrained to the inner circle and not out among the masses.  
         “I heard it directly from Solas.” Dorian strode across the spacious room with the faint jingle of buckles on his boots and the click of his heels on bare flooring. “The man is a terror. Scowling and working on his vile potions.”  
         “Well perhaps you can go help him,” Cullen cut off the good-natured rambling abruptly, though his voice stayed quiet. He’d learned over the years how to be perfectly threatening and cutting without ever raising his voice. It served him well now when he didn’t wish to disturb Éimhir, but didn’t have the patience for badinage with Dorian.  
         Not that it really fazed the Tevinter mage. He still settled himself on the edge of Éimhir’s bed, hip bumping Cullen’s. “Your suggestion is hardly a novel one, Commander. I’ve already had an enlightening conversation with the man about varying species of elfroot and their healing properties. Oh, and spindleweed. Delightful discussion. Really must be repeated.” But despite the chatter, Cullen noted the gentle care with which Dorian placed a cool cloth on the Herald’s brow. He didn’t really peg the mage as the nursing type, and his thoughts must have shown in his expression, for the Tevinter laughed softly. “You must find it odd for me to play nursemaid, but I’m not. Playing nursemaid, that is. That’s your job, Commander. I just thought I should make sure you were behaving yourself. One hears about the naughtiness of Templars with a helpless mage in their grasp.”  
         “I’m no longer a Templar.”  
         “Yet you are still a man.” The mage gestured to the Elf in Cullen’s arms. “One with a rather charming young lady in your grasp.”  
         Now, Cullen didn’t consider himself a particularly murderous man. But the idea of throttling Dorian was growing more and more appealing. Either that or punching the young man. They were both excellent options, but at the moment, he settled for glowering. His shoulders were plenty broad even without his spaulders and fur mantle adding to his bulk, and his eyes still gleamed menacingly, practically glinting gold. The lion may not have his mane at the moment, but he still had his teeth. He still had a growl lurking in his voice as he declared, “Shut. Up. Before I forget you’re a friend, Dorian.”  
         “Alright, have it your way.” Dorian lifted his hands in surrender and gracefully rose from the side of Éimhir’s bed. But he wasn’t leaving without a parting shot. “You know, temper is only exciting for so long. You might wish to temper your temper, Commander.”  
         Dorian’s words really didn’t help to ‘temper his temper’. But mercifully, Cullen was left alone with his slumbering love again. The room was quiet now. Fire crackling in the hearth and wind whirling outside were the only sounds aside from Éimhir’s slow breathing. He could relax a little and focus on her.  
         Her little hands were so cold. Bringing her right hand to his lips for a kiss to her fingers, Cullen wondered if they had always been cold. He had never touched her hands, skin to skin, before now. Always his hands were encased in metal gauntlets or leather gloves. Éimhir’s fingers had been cool on his face and in his hair the second time they kissed, but the Commander thought it was because they had been out on the battlements for a while in a biting wind. Now he frowned against her skin and pressed the palm of her hand to his lips, to his cheek, warming it between his cheek and large hand. This woman would be the death of him. Or make him go prematurely grey.

         Her hand was warm when she awoke.  
         The Elf stirred slightly, still feeling sluggish, and the warmth tightened around her hand. Her right hand, to be precise. Her right hand that apparently was held in one of Cullen’s own hands.  
         “Oh, good. You’re awake.”  
         Her eyes drifted higher to see the relief in golden eyes and the slight smile curving up the corner of scarred lips. Yes, this was her Cullen. His carefully brushed and styled hair was once again a curly mess and looked like he had raked his fingers through it again and again. And beyond him stood Solas, a steaming goblet in hand. Well, Éimhir _hoped_ that was steam rising from the cup.  
         “How long was I asleep?” the Inquisitor queried in a faintly raspy, groggy voice. She didn’t even struggle when Cullen helped her sit up and joined her in bed to support her upper body. Her left hand throbbed, glowed in angry, crackling pulses.  
         “It’s only been a few hours.” Cullen dropped a kiss to the top of her head while Éimhir frowned. A few hours was better than a few days, but obviously the mark hadn’t settled down yet. She glanced outside the window, but there were no rifts in sight, and the Breach was still closed from what she could see.  
         Solas noticed the Inquisitor’s questioning gaze and offered a potential explanation as he set the goblet in her hand. “It’s possible you over-extended yourself today, Inquisitor. You were using the Anchor much more than usual.” His fingertips lightly tapped her knuckles in a wordless admonishment for Lavellan to drink. “This should replenish your energy, and help with the pain.”  
         She grimaced but drank the vile draught nonetheless. “I wish we knew more about this. Even what Corypheus said at Haven was insufferably vague. He gave no clues as to how the Anchor is powered, or what it does when grafted to a living host. I feel...” The Inquisitor sighed and drooped back against Cullen, who squeezed her shoulders bracingly. She felt powerless. Ignorant. A little frightened even.  
         “We’ll figure this out,” her Commander murmured while Solas took the goblet back. “In the meantime, you should eat. Then rest. If I have to, I’ll call in a healer to prescribe rest.”  
         As both men left, Éimhir realised Cullen must have been with her for a while, if not the whole time. The edge of her bed was warm. His armour was stacked neatly near the foot of her bed, and his sword had been propped up by the head of her mattress until he took it with him in his search for food. Her pillow even smelled of him when she lay down and inhaled deeply. And the thought brought a little smile to her face.  
         Maybe it wasn’t so bad to get pampered every once in a while.


	7. Interlude

         The first thing he smelled when he woke was the nostril-tingling scent of lyrium and the delicate sweetness of lilies.  
         He didn’t even bother opening his eyes, because he knew what he would find: silvery hair his nose was pressed against, a tanned and elongated ear he now nuzzled towards and lipped at to the sound of soft sighing, a certain petite mage who turned his world upside-down on a regular basis possessing these things and the delicate frame his arm had curled around in sleep.  
         It didn’t feel light out. Time was insubstantial just then, the sun prevented from interrupting this quiet moment of contentment by...rain. That’s what he heard pattering against the windows, tapping on the glass, while the wind whistled by. Another deep inhalation confirmed this, bringing the fresh, clean scent of water from the heavens to his nose. But his sleep-fogged brain focused on the source of the first sensations to hit him when he woke.  
         Nostril-tingling lyrium.  
         Delicate sweetness of lilies.  
         A slim and warm body curled back against him and under his arm.  
         The commander burrowed his nose beneath silky strands of silver-blonde to press against a warm and slender column, to brush his lips against a slowly thrumming pulse. He smiled ever-so-slightly, eyes still closed, when his bed partner’s breath hitched briefly at his touch, when she arched slowly, sensuously back against him to press her small chest into his warm and calloused palm as his hand wandered upwards. And of course, that utterly unconscious move of hers pressed soft flesh to hard, drawing a soft groan from him, muffled against her shoulder.

         He mumbled something. Maybe her name or a questioning sound. Whatever it was, she made some equally soft sound as she woke up just a little bit more and squirmed slowly, still drowsy and pinned by Cullen’s arm curled over her side to cup her breast. And when his hand drifted down, delving between her legs...  
         A breathy gasp escaped into the cool morning air.  
         She loved the cold, loved ice, loved a cool wind with the fresh scent of trees or clean water on the air. But she also loved his warm skin, his fingers roughened from years of wielding sword and shield. She loved the way they ghosted over tender flesh before growing bolder, testing, slipping into moist heat and drawing a soft mewl from deep inside of her. She loved _his_ heat as arms muscled from rigorous training and bearing sword, shield, and heavy armour for over a decade wrapped around her, rolled the both of them over slightly so her cheek and chest were pressed to the pillows. His warmth and weight on her back were comforting. Though there was no practiced seduction in the path roughened fingers trailed, the Inquisitor mumbled soft sounds that could be interpreted as _keep going_ into the pillow and let her legs be spread, her lower body lifted with the help of his abandoned pillow and warm hands.  
         This wasn’t the almost frantic clash of lips and teeth and tongues, the eager grasping and groping and grinding of her first time, forever etched in her mind along with the scorch marks on his desk. Nor was this the drawn-out seduction after one of Cullen’s withdrawal fits, intended to bring him comfort but only resulting in both of them getting lost in each other.  
         This was slow, since even when drowsy he was aware of how tiny her frame was compared to his. But there was no foreplay beyond the initial caresses which woke her. Just slow, gradually deepening thrusts accompanied by laboured breaths against her hair, her body slowly opening to his until at last, the couple exhaling in unison, he lay seated deep inside her.

         He was probably crushing her. But she made no noise of protest. She simply stretched one arm above her head to grip the top of her pillow from below and let out a soft hum with a shudder. Maker’s breath, but he could feel her along nearly every inch of him.  
         Hot.  
         Wet.  
         Pulsing, almost in time to his excited heartbeat—perhaps in time to her own. And each pulse only served to focus his attention to the thrumming of blood to and in his erection, which in turn made him aware of the increasing strength of her channel tightening around him.  
         Cullen didn’t even really have to move. Just a little tension of his leg and abdominal muscles, the smallest increase of pressure and amount of friction, and she was tightening again. He wasn’t even aware of the groan that escaped due to her body’s reaction to that subtle move. His brain was more focused on repeating that little tiny thrust and getting another spasm from his lover’s muscles which stretched around him to fit like a well-crafted glove.

         Neither of them paid attention to the ebb and flow of the rainfall, the varying intensities of sunlight through the clouds, or the passage of time. They were in a limbo of sorts where the only thing that mattered was the two of them together. The universe had contracted down to just them. Their world was Éimhir burying her face in a pillow with a stuttering moan, Cullen reaching under her to brush the lightest caress he was currently capable of against the Elf’s swollen and sensitive clit. Previous encounters with the Inquisitor had taught Cullen the gentle approach was best, and it served him well now. His tender stroking, the light nip he gave her ear, the thrust he couldn’t resist, they all made his love gasp into her pillow.  
         It wasn’t an explosive climax. There were no loud moans, no screams, no thumping bed from the force of two bodies pounding together. It was an orgasm that made the Inquistor gasp, let out a whimper, and sigh as her slight frame trembled under the weight and warmth of her Commander. It was rapid pulses of muscles deep inside her which moved without her command. It was gentle waves of constriction in the aftershocks, and her limbs relaxing by the time Cullen softly groaned his own completion and ground deep inside her. It was a sense of satisfaction as he stayed buried inside her for a little while and her passage clenched around him ever-so-slightly with every other heartbeat, drawing a soft sigh from the Elf’s lips.  
         By the time Cullen pulled out, Éimhir was halfway back asleep. She barely registered the kiss he brushed to the corner of her lips or the arm he snaked under her after gently removing the pillow propping her hips up. All that mattered to her was his warmth on her back as the former Templar remained sprawled half on top of her, the comfort of her pillow, and how she didn’t have to get up yet. She could go right back to sleep with a little smile in the afterglow.

         Cullen had a smile of his own as he noticed the cat-like smile on her face, just inches from his own. His lover’s breathing was slow and even. Asleep again. He’d done well by his lady, and couldn’t quite suppress a surge of smug satisfaction at the knowledge, even as sleep fought to claim him too.  
         It was almost a dream. He almost felt as though he would wake up and find himself once again in the sparse room of a Templar. The last decade would be all just the product of a night’s sleep. He would don his armour, take up his post watching the mages, and there would be a silver-haired minx with the biggest blue eyes practically glowing in her dusky face. She would still be out of his reach, forbidden, a sin, and the feel of her squeezing and shuddering around him simply a vivid fantasy.  
         But he touched her now, and she was warm, soft. He inhaled slowly and she smelled of lilies and lyrium. The crispness of rain-washed air filled the room, not the scents of old parchment and dust as were in his quarters at Kinloch Hold. He could feel hair sticking to skin slightly damp from his exertions.  
         Reassured, Cullen let his weary eyes drift shut once more and snuggled closer so his forehead nearly touched Éimhir’s on the pillow. The day was still very young. He could afford to sleep in a little, and so could his ever-busy lady.  
  


         When she finally woke, it wasn’t due to dissatisfaction. There was a sense of loss. Blearily, the Inquisitor turned her head on the pillow, and her sleep-fogged brain registered there was a warm and considerable weight missing from her back. There was also delighted barking coming from somewhere nearby.  
         “Come in now, ser. Maker’s breath, I should have closed these earlier,” accompanied the barking. Ah. There was Cullen. The soft snickt of latches on glass doors sounded through the mostly quiet room while a dog whined piteously. “Your mistress will be upset enough at the wet which came through. She doesn’t need wet dog as well.” Another whine. “You know me better than that, serah. Downstairs you go. And not a word of argument from you.”  
         Éimhir rolled over and opened her eyes to watch her behemoth of a war hound slink off towards the door with a trail of water following him. The sight made her chuckle, which drew the attention of warm, velvety brown eyes. “Mmm...morning.”  
         “Good morning yourself.” While the Inquisitor pushed herself up into a sitting position, her lover strode over to deposit a kiss on her forehead. “I think it’s safe to say there will be a lot of work to do here today. We still don’t have all the holes in the roofs fixed yet,” the commander sighed. “And obviously, I forgot to close your balcony doors before bed. You’ll need someone to come clean up your floor.”  
         “And you need to have your own roof put on the list of repairs.” The Elf patted Cullen’s cheek with a shake of her head. “In the meantime, move some of your things in here. I have the room, and we do not need you catching ill from damp and chill.”  
         The commander coughed and tried not to look sheepish, but it was a doomed effort. Though there were many years lost between them, some things didn’t change, and other things were noticed after so much time in close quarters together these days. Éimhir noticed his wry embarrassment despite his efforts. Her own efforts to smother a smile were much more successful. “I will consider it, Éimhir.”  
         “Perhaps I should make it an order.”  
         “And perhaps you should first consider taking an actual break.” Cullen cradled her face in his hands. The gesture made her feel so very small and delicate indeed from how much his warm and calloused hands could span in comparison to her slight build. “It has been weeks now since the Anchor last gave you problems, but that rift at Adamant was no small thing. You should take it easy.” When Éimhir opened her lips to protest, the commander shook his head at her. “It looks like we’ll have a real storm on our hands soon, so there’s no point in you haring off down the mountain. And it will take time for Josephine to get things in line for meeting with Empress Célene. Take a break. You’ve earned it.”  
         She knew that steady gaze, the way that firm jaw was tilted. Cullen wouldn’t take no for an answer. The only thing she could do was nod, and accept her reward of a smile and a gentle kiss. When Cullen moved back, Lavellan lay back against her pillow and propped her head on her hand to watch him gather up scattered articles of clothing. He certainly was a pleasant sight to wake up to. Good morning entertainment too, bending over like that to pick up his trousers while not wearing a stitch of clothing. It was a pity he had to put everything back on.  
         “What of you? Will you take a break as well?” The question seemed a fair one to the Elf. If operations slowed for a day, it would do her partner good to rest. He obviously slept better than he had in Kirkwall, but...the lyrium withdrawal...sometimes the pain of it kept him up, or the nightmares did. Cullen could use the time to rest.  
         But the Inquisitor wasn’t surprised when Cullen shook his head as he fastened his boots. “There’s too much for me to do, particularly if the storm turns out to be a bad one. I need to check guard rotations, supplies...” He paused and looked up, obviously noticing Éimhir’s disappointment, for he was quick to return to her side for a kiss on top of her head. “I will try to make some time. Meet me for lunch and chess?”  
         The Elf nodded her agreement with a satisfied smile. “With pleasure. Go, be my commanding general, before I find myself compelled to seduce you back into bed.”  
         Ah...his snorting laughter and reddened face were definitely a lovely start to her day. Éimhir couldn’t help giggling as he bellowed for Tuvok in an attempt to cover his embarrassment, and she slipped out of bed to find her clothes. Not a bad way to start—to properly start—the day.


End file.
